What might we Deduce about his Heart?
by futurescreenwriter11
Summary: "At first it had just been a game. A nothing. A mindless distraction...One deep breath later he was flying...But no one told him of the creatures that lurk in the dark." Rated T for drug use, attempted suicide, abusive relationships, alluded underage rape/prostitution, and PTSD.
1. Failure

At first it had just been a game. A nothing. A mindless distraction to fill the periods of boredom that books could no longer cure. It had been easy enough to acquire. The student at the back of the class, with the dark glasses and bad attendance record. It was too easy.

He had stared at the thin white line on the mirror for a while. His mother's voice echoed in his mind, followed by his father's, which he quickly shoved away. If anything, the memories steeled his resolve. He picked up a note and rolled it into a tube. One deep breath later he was flying.

It was like he had spent his whole life staring at just dancing shadows, but now saw the light of day. He felt powerful, invincible even. Suddenly, his brother's expectations, his mother's ambitions, and his father's reputation didn't matter anymore. He was his own man. And no one could tell Sherlock Holmes what to do.

The crash came as expected, but he was well supplied. The next night he flew again. The feeling of his mind racing was incredible. At times he felt like he could almost watch his intellect sprint, like an Olympic athlete it was amazing to watch.

Of course, no one jumps head first into the dark abyss of addiction. Except Sherlock. Why stare at dancing shadows when you can fly? Why bother with just thinking when you can watch your own mind race? Everything else seemed just so utterly simple and stupid. It was a waste of his time.

But no one told him of the creatures that lurk in the dark. The feeling that someone was always watching, that he could trust no one, became too familiar. Doubts about just how brilliant he was clung to him. Whenever he touched back down to Earth, they were there waiting for him.

_They know about your secret._

They'd whisper to him in the dark lonely nights.

_Isn't life so boring? It's just…staying. Never growing, never moving, just staying. How droll. How stupid. How…ordinary._

The voices were terrible. They chilled him. Was it worth flying if you sacrificed your sanity? No, he decided. He was better than that, than this addiction. It wasn't even an addiction; it would be easy to stop.

But he sat there alone in the dark of his room and they came to him. They looked at his shaking fingers and fixated gaze and must have chuckled.

_Wouldn't you rather fly?_

He fought to resist but lost. He flew that night, but it wasn't enough. He couldn't reach the heights he once had. He could still hear them as he stretched to soar. Something had to be added, something to keep him off Earth and away from the voices.

This time he had to search, walk through dark alleys and speak with questionable people. But he found his salvation. Since he couldn't fly, he buried himself deep where none could find him. The empty silence was a welcome relief to the boring normalcy of life and the dark whispers of his demons. His mind was free to stretch out and expand in his comatose like states. It didn't race, but moved like lava, slowly and surely enveloping everything in its path.

Eventually his mother found out. He sat, impassive as a stone, as she railed him. He wasn't sorry for his choices. She had no idea what type of world he lived in, he decided. The only regret was that she cut him off from the family money, and paying for his desires became difficult. But he managed; he always found a way, no matter how degrading it may have been. It was always a better option than facing the whispers.

So he remained hidden, for months, years; sometimes in the earth, sometimes in the sky. But he discovered a problem with his plan: it is impossible to hide from one's own mind. And the whispers found him again.

_You need us._

_You can't live without us._

_What would you be without us?_

_A nothing. Average. Never able to fly or sink to the depths of existence. _

_Wouldn't it be nice if you could just stay like this?_

He dragged his eyes open. That was a tempting thought. He certainly preferred this state than normal life. But somewhere his logical brain reminded him it was physically impossible to remain constantly high, there was always a crash.

_Come on, you know that's not true. There's a way to spend the rest of your life like this._

Suddenly, he understood what they meant. But he didn't immediately reject the thought, a fact which should have scared him more than it did. He staggered to his feet and moved out onto the balcony of the apartment he had found himself in. Thirteen stories up, and a busy street below. What was the point of living, he asked himself. It was boring, without his demons. They stood beside him, looking down at the street.

_Don't you want to fly?_

Suddenly, his logical mind screamed out NO. And Sherlock's grip turned white on the thick concrete railing. They surveyed him and smiled darkly.

_No…you won't do it. _

_You're far too ordinary to fly. You're far too weak to try. You can't even resist us._

Without fully thinking about it, he found himself stepping on to the railing. The breeze brushed the curls away from his face. It was dizzying, air being the only thing between him and the ground.

_Go on._

_Jump._

"Sir!" a voice sounded behind Sherlock. He glanced behind him to see several police officers filling the apartment behind him. They were cuffing the other people in the room. Sherlock turned to face forward again, the whispers yelling in his mind.

_JUMP._

A pair of strong arms grabbed Sherlock's waist and pulled him back onto the balcony. He fell to the ground and leaned back against the railing. A flashlight was shined in his eyes and he quickly looked away, grimacing from the pain.

"Sgt. Lestrade, this one's high too." The man said, turning back to the officer in charge of the drugs bust. Lestrade nodded and put his hands in his pockets.

"Take them all to the station."

* * *

"I understand the nature of his offense, Sgt. Lestrade-"

"It's Detective Lestrade now."

"…Detective Lestrade. But I believe my brother could find a better use of his time than spending five to ten in a penitentiary."

"Look, Mr. Holmes. I know your family is better connected than the Queen herself, but my hands are tied. He had cocaine, heroine, and an unidentifiable substance in his blood. He's lucky to be alive. But he's going to serve time. And besides, narcotics is no longer my division, I'm in homicide now. You need to talk to Sgt. Neely-"

"Detective, wait. My brother has certain skills that could be…of use to you."

"To me?"

"To your department. If these skills helped you, do you think his sentence could be lessened?"

"…what kind of skills?"

* * *

It had been a hellish week for Sherlock. He had spent most of it in a cell, huddled in the corner to contain the shaking. The whispers had become screams now, they were always there. Berating him, mocking him. All he wanted was to be left alone, and in that very moment the last person he wanted to see showed up.

"How could you have fallen so low, little brother?" Mycroft's voice was filled with disappointment. Sherlock glared up at him, his arms wrapped around his long legs, but Mycroft noticed the shaking.

"Go."

"I arranged a situation for you. At the end of the week, you will accompany Detective Lestrade on an investigation and help him in anyway you can. If he thinks you did a well enough job, you might escape prison. You will not fail this time, Sherlock. Do you understand?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but continued eye contact with Mycroft.

"Think of it as community service. Good-bye, Sherlock."

Sherlock waited till Mycroft had almost left the hallway when he asked, "Why are you doing this? The family name?"

Mycroft scoffed. "I'm afraid father beat you to destroying that a long time ago. No, my hope is that if we give your mind enough to think about, it won't turn to narcotics for entertainment."

Mycroft left and Sherlock was alone again. The whispers had stopped screaming, but they spoke constantly. Always hissing at him.

_Failure._


	2. Worthless

At first he had been dashing. Cordial. Even chivalrous. A regular knight in shining armor. She had fallen for him easy enough. The young English girl falling for the handsome American soldier. It was textbook.

The move back to his home in Florida had been a surprise to the new Mrs. Lydia Hudson. She'd had dreams of owning her own home in London, maybe one with other flats to let out. But the house was nice, and the people were polite. It was still a hard transition, a London girl attempting to adjust to life in a rural small town in the deep south of America.

But her husband was wonderful. He'd kiss her when he came home from work, and hold her hand as they walked out of church on Sunday morning. For a while it almost felt like she was living a fairytale, her very own happy ending. Lydia Hudson had found the perfect man.

The dream started to crack with a pearl necklace, a gift from her father on the day of her wedding. She hardly ever took it off. It reminded her of her family, who she hadn't seen in many years. Sometimes she would just sit, run the smooth pearls between her fingers and miss them terribly. It was a simple enough request, her husband reasoned. Put it away. Leave it alone. Forget about it.

Of course, she should have realized that this was just a hint of was to come. Except she didn't. He cared for her; didn't he want the best for her? Why would he ask her to do something if it wasn't for her own good? It wasn't such an unreasonable request, she told herself, as she put the necklace away in a drawer and out of her mind. She loved him after all.

But it didn't end with the necklace. Next it was the dresses she wore, the shoes she owned. How she talked, walked, sat, stood. Everything she did wasn't good enough. No one else mentioned these to her, but they didn't love her as much as he did, she convinced herself. She began second guessing herself all the time. It was like his voice was always in her ear, correcting her.

_No, you idiot. Not like that._

His voice would whisper in her ear.

_No wonder you have no friends. All you have is me. _

His voice was terrible. It chilled her. Was it worth having the perfect man if you sacrificed your sanity? No, she decided. She was better than this, she repeated to herself over and over as she packed her bags. Maybe if she said it enough, it would be true.

But she sat there alone under the yellow light of the bus depot and he came to her. He looked at her shaking fingers and tear stained face and must have chuckled.

_Where are you going? You're alone in this world. All you have is me._

She fought to resist but lost. She returned home that night, and faced her husband. She had never seen him so angry. He back-handed her and told her if she left again, she'd get even worse. Then he paused and held her, promising to be a better man. And he would be, she told herself that night as she lay next to him. He would be her Prince Charming like he once was.

For a while, it seemed like he would be, he kissed her when he came home and took her on drives through the country. His voice stopped whispering in her mind, and she felt like she could breathe freely again. But it didn't last long. He began questioning her again, every minute of her day had to be accounted for. If she couldn't explain where or why, he'd become angry. Very angry.

Eventually her family found out. Her sister showed up for a surprise visit one morning, after he'd been very angry the night before. She said she tripped, but her sister could see through the lie. Come home with me, she begged, leave him. But Lydia refused. Her sister had no idea what type of world she lived in. She was alone. A sense of regret filled her as she watched her sister board her plane for England, but she still turned and walked away. She didn't belong in England anymore, she didn't belong in Florida. She only belonged to him.

So she stayed with him, for years upon years; watching her life slip away from her as she attempted to keep him happy. But she discovered a problem with her plan: it is impossible to please him. His voice began to echo in her mind again.

_You need me._

_You can't live without me._

_What would you be without me?_

_Alone. No one else will love you. Only me._

She opened her eyes as she heard the car pull up in the driveway. He was home late, and he was angry by the sound of the door being slammed shut. She quietly slipped out of bed and went to him, knowing he'd be angrier if she hid. She found him, in the kitchen, washing his hands, the water turning a dark red.

_Without me, you're nothing._

He turned around and their eyes met. There was more blood on his shirt. For one minute, the Earth stopped. She could feel her pulse pound in her ears. He raised a hand, and she instinctively shrank back. You keep your trap shut, he commanded, pushing past her.

_You'll tell no one because you have no one. You are no one._

Her mind tried to grasp the magnitude of what she had just discovered. An errant thought of alerting the police passed through her mind, but was quickly drowned out by his voice. She returned to bed, and he was already there, the bloodied shirt was gone.

* * *

"Did you hear that Richard Williams has gone missing?"

"No, I hadn't heard that. How long has he been gone?"

"Almost a week. Apparently, though I shouldn't be telling you this, the police believe that he is dead…bless his soul."

"Hmm. He's gonna need all the blessings he can get. You know he hadn't been to church in years?"

"Lydia, your husband knew Richard, didn't he?"

"Yes, well, no. Not really."

"Anyway, the deputy told me that he may have been _killed_."

"Gracious!"

"Do you think the murderer could be among us? A member of our town?"

"It could be anyone, Richard didn't get along with many people, you know."

"Lydia, who do you think could have done it?"

"I-I really…really don't know."

"Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you sur-"

"I said I'm fine!"

"Well, alright then. No need to get angry."

* * *

It had been a hellish week for Lydia. The whispers were screams, constantly shouting in her mind. But soon she couldn't take the secret anymore; she slipped out late one night and walked to the sheriff's station.

The bell rang as she opened the door into the florescent-light grey room of a station.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherriff Wilson said, rising. "What brings you here at this time of night?"

She didn't answer, she could hardly think straight with the voice screaming.

"She's here to confess a crime, obviously." The young man in the cell said, with disdain in his voice. Lydia could hardly remember the last time she heard an English accent. The man sat up on his bed, and surveyed her with blood shot eyes. "Though not her crime." He stood up and sauntered to the front of the cell, always watching her.

"Ignore him, Mrs. Hudson. Picked him up on one of the country roads, higher than a kite."

"My blood toxicology scan was negative, _Sheriff_."

"He-he's right." She finally managed. "I have something to tell you about Richard's m…murder."

"It was her husband." He offered, beginning to lose interest. Wilson spun around and shouted,

"Be quiet, you."

"Come now. She's obviously the long-time victim of an abusive relationship. No family in town, not with that accent. Let me guess, met him in England during the war, married and moved over here and he quickly showed his true colors? How long have you been turning a blind eye to that one, _Sheriff?"_

Wilson turned back to Lydia, who merely nodded and looked away, wincing from the voice. He sighed.

"I need to make a call then. Take a seat," he gestured to the bench by the door, "And you, keep your mouth shut."

"Thank you." Lydia said quietly, once the Sheriff had left. "I…well, wouldn't have been able to say it otherwise."

He dropped unceremoniously on his bunk again. "Do you have somewhere you can go?"

She frowned. "I suppose…I have a sister in England still. If she'll take me."

A few minutes of silence passed. "I'm Lydia Hudson." She said, finally.

He cracked an eye open, then sat up. "Sherlock Holmes."

"If there's anyway I can repay you after this, Mr. Holmes, just let me know."

"Sherlock. It's just Sherlock. And I'm sure I'll find a way."

She smiled a little in spite of herself, and found that the voice had stopped screaming. Instead it was a quiet continual whisper, barely audible. Always hissing.

_Worthless._


	3. Useless

At first everything had been fine. Certainly not the best. But as any family could say, there is no such thing as a perfect family life. But he had a decent one. A Mum and Dad who loved him and wanted the best for his life, and a younger brother who wasn't too obnoxious most of the time. It was happy enough.

He always knew on his returns from school to expect hugs from Mum, a table laid out for tea with his favorite foods. Dad would return from work later in the evening, and ask about how the term was going in a firm, but loving manner. His little brother was fished from the garden, and they were informed that they would soon have another sibling joining the family.

It was an exciting announcement to be sure. Babies were rare creatures in his home, he had barely been old enough to remember when his brother had been born. He did recall the entire shift in the dynamics of the house, and this time was no different. But half-way through the pregnancy, something changed. Mum was rushed to the hospital, but she and Dad returned alone. The house became dark. And no one would tell Mycroft Holmes what had happened.

He knew that something was wrong, drastically wrong. His mother shut herself away in her room, and Dad disappeared to his work for longer than he ever had before. The staff tiptoed around the family, and the whole house felt eerily still.

At first, he tried directly asking his brother's nanny. She merely tutted and didn't answer his question. Normally, he would have asked Mum, but he hadn't seen her since she returned from the hospital. Ultimately, Mycroft resorted to eavesdropping on the staff of the house. It was in the dark of a stairwell that he understood.

A sister that should have been but never was. Liza Marie was buried in the same plot as their grandfather, and the family stood together for the first time in weeks. Mummy picked up Sherlock and began to walk towards the cars, Dad by her side. Mycroft took one last look at the smooth stone and turned to follow.

_They're so broken._

Mycroft spun around, the girl's voice had been as clear as day, but no one was behind him.

_You know, it's almost ironic that in my death I've driven them apart, but my funeral brought you together. For now._

Her voice was terrible. It chilled him. Was it worth understanding if he had to suffer the invisible ghost of a sister that never truly lived? No, he decided. He didn't deserve this, and he knew that the only person who could help was Mum.

But as soon as he saw his mother's face after asking for her help, he knew that he was terribly wrong. He was sent to his room without supper for being a 'wicked'. And as he sat there in the dark, she came to him. She looked at his shaking hands and furtive glances and must have chuckled.

_No one can help you, Mycroft._

He tried to resist but lost. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he felt truly alone. He felt lost, and forgotten, almost like a ghost. All he wanted was for things to return to the way they had been before, but there was no going back.

The next day he attempted to apologize to his mother, but it was like she didn't hear him. She was lost in her own world of darkness and grief. He knelt before her and rested his head on her lap, like he used to do when he was very young. But she didn't run her fingers through his hair and tell him a funny story. She didn't even move.

Eventually he gave up trying to talk to her. He escaped into the library. Books became his closest companions. They never left him, they were always the same when he returned. They had interesting things to say. But sometimes he would look up from his book, and listen to the stillness of the room. His chest would feel tight, and he'd have to remind himself to breathe.

So he found solace amongst the pages; his family was not as lucky. Sherlock remained in the cocoon of ignorant childhood. But when Mycroft emerged from the library, he knew that something was wrong with his parents. And the whispers of Liza found him again.

_You need them._

_You can't live without them. But they don't need you._

_ You're a failure as a son._

_ Your own mother can hardly look at you._

_What could you ever do to help them?_

Mycroft's eyes opened slowly. He thought that he'd heard a sound, a shout. Mostly everyone in the house pretended that they couldn't hear anything. But for some reason, he got out of bed and opened his door. The hallway beyond was dark and still.

_Why bother trying? It's not like you could do anything for anyone, not even little Sherlock._

As if to spite the voice, he exited his room and walked quickly down the hall. Mycroft wasn't even sure where he should be going, but he somehow found himself near his father's study. He could hear him behind the wall, talking quickly and intensely though the words were muffled.

_Go back. You aren't of any use._

Mycroft pressed his ear to the door. The sound of his mother's voice also became clearer. She sounded angry, angrier than he'd ever heard her. 'How could you do this to me? To your sons?' she shouted. 'What would you have me do? Live on in a loveless lifeless marriage?' he shouted back. 'I would have you tell me! Not run off and shag the first pretty skirt you find!' she yelled. Mycroft felt his chest getting tight again.

_ See how broken they are?_

_ And there's nothing that you can do about it._

The door to the study opened quickly and Mycroft jumped back into the shadows. Mum strode out, slamming the door behind her. She stopped and double over, breathing heavily and a few sobs ripping from her chest. He could hear his father swearing from behind the wall.

_You can't help them, or stop any of it._

_Go back to your books._

Soon she straightened with a deep breath, and left the hall. Mycroft ran back to his room and buried his face in the pillows. He wished that he had never left his room.

_You can't do anything._

He lay quietly shedding tears on his bed for a long while. Slowly the door to his room opened, but he didn't move. Mummy sat down on the bed, and Mycroft turned over, wiping away the evidence of his tears. She wordlessly pulled him into a hug, running her fingers through his hair and placing a kiss on his head.

* * *

"Mummy, where are we going?"

"We're going to our new house in the country, Sherlock. Now please, sit down."

"Is Daddy going to come later?"

"No…Daddy won't be joining us."

"Will we get to see Daddy again?"

"Maybe someday."

"Can Mycroft play with me when we get to our new house?"

"You'll have to ask him."

"Mycroft, will-"

"No."

"Mummy. Mycroft says he won't play with me."

"Mycroft, please keep your brother entertained when we arrive at the house. It will keep him out from underfoot."

"But I hate playing."

"You can take him to the library. The books should already be there, and I told the servants to leave them there so you could put them away the way you wanted to."

"Fine."

* * *

It had been a frustrating few months for Mycroft. Moriarty had proven himself more than a mere annoyance, but a threat that was not easily dealt with. Course Sherlock hadn't helped either; Bond Air would forever haunt his career. But the Spider, as Sherlock had called him, always seemed to be a few steps ahead of the brothers. He hardly knew what to expect anymore, but never had he even considered the thought of watching his little brother jump.

His chest felt tight as he took a few deep breaths and heard a familiar voice in his head. She screamed continuously in his ear as he calmly got in the car and told the driver where to go. Liza's voice never stopped for breath as the country rolled past his unseeing eyes. The screaming continued till he arrived at the old house, startling one of the maids and entering the familiar library.

"Mycroft?" Mum said, taking off her glasses and standing up. "What's wrong?"

He could hardly breathe so he motioned to the nearby chairs, but she wouldn't sit.

"Tell me now."

"It's…Sherlock."

"What happened?" she breathed.

For a minute, Mycroft felt like a small child again, innocently telling her that he thought his sister haunted him. He never wanted to see that reaction again.

"Is he dead?" she asked. He mutely nodded. "How?"

"He…jumped." He admitted, glancing away and wincing from the voice that was still shouting in his ear.

"When?"

"Earlier today."

"I see." She said, turning away and returning a book to the shelf. He frowned, that had not been the reaction he was expecting.

"Are you alright?" he asked, searching her face for any sign of remorse.

"I'm fine." She said, her face a perfect mask.

Liza's voice finally quieted, but continually hissed at him. It was barely audible, but definitely there whispering.

_Useless._


	4. Filthy

At first she had been innocent. Eyes wide open. A mind that was pure and blissfully unaware of the ways of the world. Those times were too early for memories. Images of flower fields, a woman dancing and singing with an out of tune piano. Then a slippery dark road, and a truck that lost control. It was sunny the day they were buried, she remembered that much. It all felt wrong.

She had stared at the snake in the glass aquarium as she sat in the dark office. An adder that could kill her with one bite, or so he had told her right after he said he would be her new guardian. Her uncle that had a smile that made her squirm in her seat, and miss her parents even more.

The house was large and gloomy and full of many doors that she wasn't allowed to open. She did her best to avoid seeing her Uncle at all, to remain small and unnoticeable. But he discovered that she could sing, and he often asked her to sing for him. She would be forced to stand as he gazed at her. He would applaud her performance, say that her beauty had addled his mind, and smile again. All she wanted to do was run away as she was consumed. And Irene Langtry disappeared.

Her Uncle invited another man to hear her sing. The man opened the door for her into a world she would have never dreamed of. Audiences loved to hear her, the young girl with the voice of an angel. Her talent became her one escape, and her one joy. But it came at a price. The more successful her singing became, the more time her Uncle spent with her.

Her Uncle was always there, during her practice. Behind the stage during performance. He would ask to see her late at night, and there was nothing she could do but obey. He began appearing in her dreams, hissing like his adder.

_This is your fault._

She could almost feel his long fingers on her shoulders, and his breath in her ear.

_Try and tell someone. No one will believe you. It's your word, against mine. Besides, you brought this on yourself._

It was terrible. The dreams chilled her so much she couldn't sleep. Every time she drifted off, he would be there hissing. She knew that she had to leave. She would find somewhere to go. Someone would take pity, she hoped.

But the wet streets of London were unforgiving, and the only place she found was a bench in a park. She sat there, fingers shaking from the cold. Yet despite it, she fell asleep and the hissing began again.

_No one will help you. No one would want to even look at someone like you. You should just go back, I'm the only one that would take you._

She fought to resist but he found her on the bench, and carried her back to their home. She waited for the punishment, but he never said a word. He didn't speak to her for an entire week. Not till a Thursday evening when he called her into the parlor. A man she had never seen before was there, handing her Uncle an envelope that he quickly tucked away. He told her that she would be the man's for the night as he left the room.

She discovered that after her attempted escape the hissing dreams ended. Her uncle was still ever present, but she was allowed sleep again, even if she was no better off than before. It became almost routine for Irene, every week she was sold to a new buyer. Any manner of man could come and, for a price, claim a night with the girl with the angel voice.

No one found out. Ever. Her uncle was a master at hiding his steps, like his adder hiding in the leaves as it waited for its prey to skitter by. The thought of simply crying out for help in the middle of a performance crossed her mind, but he made it seem like no one would believe her. The punishment for such an action would have been more than she could bear.

The years passed, and she grew older. Her career continued strongly, singing in front of ever-growing audiences. But she was still under her Uncle's control, being sold to anyone who desired. The dreams started again.

_You need me._

_Without me, you are alone._

_You're just a worthless scrap of breath and skin, good for only one thing._

_No one else would ever take care of you, if they knew what you had done._

Irene lay completely still in the bed, her eyes were shut but she did not sleep. She felt thin, as if her spirit was stretched to its limits. The heavy snores of her most recent client sounded in her ears. The door to the room slowly opened and her uncle stepped in silently. She knew it was her signal that she could get up and go.

_Glad to see that you can keep someone happy with your disgusting body._

The day passed quickly in feverish preparations for a concert she had that evening. The adder had escaped her dreams and seemed to slither about her ankles as she walked about. Vocal warm ups, hair and make-up, and then sitting and waiting for the concert to begin. Her uncle sat on the couch in her dressing room, flipping through a schedule book, calmly. "You'll have another client tonight." He informed her.

_What are you going to do about it?_

Irene's hands were shaking, and she could almost feel the adder wrapping itself about her calves. But she heard herself say,

"No."

He looked up, and Irene could feel her blood run cold.

"Excuse me?"

_Go on and tell someone. No one will believe someone like you._

"I said, no." she stood up, and gritted her teeth in an attempt to keep her from taking it all back.

"You'll do as I say. You'll sing, and then you will go please your client. In whatever manner he desires."

The adder made its way up her torso, squeezing as it went.

_You disgusting little whore._

_Where else would you go?_

Without even fully thinking about it, she found herself, reaching for the door handle. Her spirit may have been thin, but it wasn't broken.

_YOU CAN'T RESIST ME._

He jumped up, and gripped her hand.

"You will do as I say!" he shouted, wrenching her wrist around.

_YOU'RE NOTHING WITHOUT ME._

The adder made it's way to her neck and though she could hardly breathe, she shouted,

"NO!" She shoved him away, and he slipped, cracking his skull against the glass coffee table. The adder evaporated as the life bled out of him, and Irene watched.

* * *

"And she was just standing there as he died?"

"Yeah."

"Blimey. You ever hear her sing?"

"Took the wife a couple years ago. Who would have thought she'd have it in her to kill him?"

"Anderson said she's claiming that he was whoring her out to the highest bidder."

"Likely story."

"There'd be more evidence if that was really true."

"Hey…isn't she supposed to be in holding?"

"I thought she was in interrogation."

"She's not anymore."

"Anderson! You seen the Langtry girl?"

"I thought you had her."

"Shit!"

* * *

Irene ran out the back alley and down several dark wet streets, feeling like her heart was about to jump out of her chest. The adder may have disappeared but she could hear the continual hissing in her ear, one word constantly repeated. She stopped for a breath for a moment, but the sound of sirens sent her on her way.

She knew she couldn't go home, and she knew nowhere else to go. She could almost hear her uncle claiming that she is what she deserved for misbehaving. Maybe she should just go back, prison might be better than what awaited her there. The sight of him lying in his own pool of blood flashed before her eyes, and it steeled her resolve. No, she decided. She wasn't going back, not ever.

As she continued to walk, she mentally surveyed her situation. She had been literally screwed over by her uncle, that much was obvious. She had misbehaved, and if she didn't want to go to prison, she needed protection. And she realized with rather grim satisfaction, he had given her the exact skill set to get what she needed.

But the adder remained. It was a constant reminder of where she had come from, always in her ear. Always hissing.

_Filthy._


	5. Coward

At first he had been the protector. The brave one. The big brother that his younger siblings could run to when they were hurt or afraid. He was happy to be there for them. He always patched them up, soothed their fears. They could rely on him.

As he grew older, his thoughts turned to the future. Certainly, he had dreams of being a doctor. But he knew that they could truly never be more than just dreams, not on an army sergeant's pension with two kids behind him. He realized that if he wanted any medical experience, he would have to join the rank and file. It wouldn't be all bad, after all he was used to patching up his siblings when they came running with bloodied knees.

Except the soldiers usually didn't run to him. They were carried in, groaning and half-dead. There were planes flying overhead, bombs exploding ever closer and always, always the moaning of the wounded. He would rush around, up to his elbows in every sort of bodily fluid imaginable, as he hoped to stop up the dam that was quickly breaking. The tent shook with a dangerously nearby blast as the soldier flat-lined again. He leaned over with the paddles in hand shouting for people to clear, as a deafening roar filled his ears. And John Watson knew no more.

When he woke up, the quiet of the recovery ward was overwhelming, as was the pain in his left shoulder. They said that he'd been unconscious for over a week and he was lucky to be alive. They also said that he was being discharged with honors, and could return to normal life.

Of course, no one realized that he had forgotten how to live a normal life. Except John. Why did it matter who won the latest crap telly show? Why would the lady next door care whether or not he replied to her chipper 'good morning'? Everything seemed just so utterly simple and stupid. It was a waste of his time.

And no one told him of the people that lurked in the dark. The faces of those he lost and couldn't save would meet him every time he closed his eyes. Even in broad daylight, he could be thrust back into the battlefield, every sense telling him that he was in immediate danger. Only to be jerked back to reality and left feeling exhausted.

_Why didn't you save us?_

They'd whisper to him in the dark lonely nights.

_Why do you get to live a normal life? We're dead. Dead because of you. What makes you so special?_

The voices were terrible. They chilled him. He'd thought that he could hack this 'normal life' alone, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that he couldn't. He needed help, and then everything could be fixed.

But as he sat there in the therapist's chair, he couldn't speak a word. He knew if he told her, she would give him medications, send him to a ward, confirming that John was just as weak a man as the whispers said he was. So he said nothing.

_You think you're brave, don't you?_

He fought to resist, but lost. The dreams grew stronger and stronger. The flashbacks occurred more frequently. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. He couldn't even walk, which was probably the worst of all.

All his life John had been fairly athletic. He never struggled physically with any tasks. Now walking across his postage stamp of a flat was a struggle. Opening jars caused his hand to cramp. His therapist insisted that it was a psychosomatic disorder, and would go away if he worked through his problems. But she had no idea what she was telling him to do, no idea how impossible it was.

Eventually she stopped telling him to simply work through it. He guessed that she'd realized how deep in he was. So she suggested that he run a blog, which was probably the stupidest idea that John had ever heard. Blogs were for young people with too much time on their hands, and too little experience with how the world really worked. But she insisted; he found himself staring at a screen for hours on end. The blinking cursor would stare right back at him like the eyes of his ghosts.

Maybe, John hoped, if he simply did nothing, the ghosts would leave him alone. But he discovered a problem with his plan: there's nowhere to hide in an empty life. And the ghosts continued to haunt him.

_You make us sick._

_ You don't deserve to be living._

_ Not that you're really living anyway._

_ It should be you, dead in that battlefield._

_ It would have been you, if it wasn't for sheer luck. _

He slammed the front door behind him. Damning his leg again, he limped down the pavement. Not heading anywhere in particular, just anywhere to get away from them. They couldn't possibly follow him in broad daylight. But he was wrong.

_Think you can run away? _

_ You'll never escape us John._

_ There's only one way to get rid of us._

Suddenly, he understood what they meant. He stopped in the middle of the pathway in the park. His breathing was ragged and he stretched his left hand. All around him people jogged and laughed. They weren't haunted like an insane man.

_Come on. Right hand drawer of your desk. It'd be quick._

Without thinking, John turned around abruptly and headed back the way he came. His heart rate was racing as if he was running a marathon. He limped along quickly, the ghosts still whispering in his ear.

_That's it. Go on._

_Your choice. Either live with us your whole life, or cut it short. _

_Isn't the decision obvious?_

John found himself turning down the path to head back to his flat. He struggled to keep relatively calm, avoid eye contact with anyone. As if they would be able to see his plans.

_Go on._

_Do it._

"John!" a voice sounded behind John. He glanced behind him to see a man get off a bench and approach him, smiling. "John Watson! Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."

John paused and turned around, wincing as the whispers became screams.

_DO IT._

Mike grabbed John's hand, and took him for coffee. Aimless chatter as the screaming continued in his mind.

"Couldn't you get a flat-share or something?" Mike asked.

"Come on, who'd want me for a flat-mate?" John replied. Mike chuckled. "What?"

"You're the second person to ask me that today."

"Who's the first?"

* * *

"Hello?"

"John-"

"Sherlock, you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came-"

"I'm coming in-"

"Just do as I ask! …please."

"Where?"

"Stop there!"

"Sherlock…"

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh, God…"

…

"This phone call it's …it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

"Leave a note when?"

"Good-bye, John."

* * *

John recalled precious little of the week following Sherlock's…death. He had spent most of it sitting in their, his flat. Not even bothering to put on shoes, let alone eat or sleep. The ghosts that Sherlock had scared away returned with a vengeance. Sitting across from him, berating him, mocking him. They were always at his side, screaming. All John wanted was to be alone, but Mrs. Hudson insisted on accompanying him to the interment.

He stared out the polished stone, the hurricane of emotions blocking out most of what she was saying. He found himself talking with her, but he had no clue what was actually coming out of his mouth.

"I'll…leave you alone with um," she placed a finger to her lips and walked away before she cried more.

John took a steadying breath, but it didn't help. It didn't drown out the shock and the pain…and the anger.

"Um," John quickly checked behind himself to make sure Mrs. Hudson was out of earshot. He had no plans of what he wanted to say…but it would be better if she didn't hear him anyway.

The words fell out of him, and he found himself wondering if they even made sense. He stepped forward and lightly touched the stone, the cool of the marble cutting through the fog and he heard himself say,

"I was so alone…and I owe you so much."

He turned and started after Mrs. Hudson but he stopped. _This can't be it. Don't let it be the end. Please, Sherlock._

"One more thing…for me. Just one more thing. Don't…be…dead." His throat closed up and he could hardly breathe. "Just stop it…stop all this."

As the words left his mouth, he felt foolish, like he was some naïve child wishing upon a star. A forgotten friend praying to a grave. He pinched his brow and took several more steadying breaths before turning and walking away from the grave, from his friend. The whispers had stopped screaming, but they spoke constantly. Always hissing at him.

_Coward._


End file.
